


Thedosian Idol

by theherocomplex



Series: Distant Shores and Voices [15]
Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, Fluff, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-09
Updated: 2016-07-12
Packaged: 2018-06-07 10:21:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,143
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6799843
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theherocomplex/pseuds/theherocomplex
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>She’s pretty when she speaks, sweet-faced when she holds still. And when she sings, there is no one else Fenris wants to look at, ever again.</i>
</p><p>In which Danarius is the Simon Cowell of Thedas, Fenris is Danarius' personal assistant, and Hawke thinks bringing a mandolin to a pop music competition is a good idea.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> kindervenom asked for FenHawke and an obscure AU, and who am I to refuse her? <3
> 
> Note: I have never seen American Idol.

Tonight, luck is on Fenris’ side: he opens the door to Danarius’ dressing room the moment the twenty-minute warning bell rings, tea and suit jacket in hand, and cuts off his boss the second the bastard starts to yell his name.

Danarius settles for an oily smile, and for sneering over his cup of tea. Fenris waits by the door, face impassive, knowing full well he made the tea perfectly, knowing it won’t matter at all.

“You used the _raw_ sugar, my dear?” Danarius asks, after a delicate little sip. “You do know I can’t stand that processed trash.”

“I did,” Fenris says, staring straight ahead, as he has every taping night for the last five and a half years. He breathes in through his nose, and thinks of Chantry hymns – he doesn’t even _like_ Chantry hymns, but they’re a distraction from the urge to throw the rest of the tea into Danarius’ face.

Danarius scoffs, but drinks the tea without further complaint.

He helps Danarius into his jacket, wordlessly brushes away the dandruff Danarius refuses to admit he produces, and follows, a silent shadow, as Danarius makes his way to the soundstage.

 _For this_ , Fenris thinks, watching PAs and grips scatter at their approach, _I went to the University of Orlais._

He has the loans to prove it. Hence the miserable job, hence the monstrous boss. Songwriters aren’t in demand when the economy is booming, and the recession ground any hope of employment into the dirt. But there’s always a job for someone who will work for nothing, just to take one step toward what they want, and so he spends eighteen hours out of twenty-four fulfilling every whim and wish, and regrets this devil’s bargain every damn day. He fetches tea and brushes off shoulders and glares on command and hopes he’s not watching his only fertile years erode.

( _Were you writing something, my dear? Well, I want sushi. Go. Where’s my suit, my dear? When is the car arriving? Carry this. Fetch this. Make sure there is nothing and no one in my way, my dear. That’s what I hired you for. Not for writing something no one will listen to. Now hurry, my dear. Don’t keep me waiting._ )

Fenris shakes himself. Ten minutes to showtime.

Hadriana has already arrived, hair lacquered into place and wearing a blue dress no doubt chosen to complement Danarius’ choice in suits; she ignores Fenris completely to trip over to Danarius and coo over his tie. Fenris waits, eyes forward, and thinks of a Dalish lullaby, the notes spread out on the inside of his head.

He knows, too well, how little Danarius thinks of this show, and the people who sing for him, year after year. He knows how hard Danarius would laugh if he knew of Fenris’ dream: to write again, to hear his songs sung again, to not wait in the dark for someone to demand tea or for the car to be brought around. Danarius does the show for the money, for the chance to laugh at people who dared to think this might be their chance — and most of all, for the power to say _no_ , and to say it with a smile.  

It occurs to Fenris, distantly, that he hates his life. But what good would quitting do? He’d lose an apartment he doesn’t care about, he might sleep for more than three hours at a stretch, he wouldn’t be called _my dear_ anymore – and his mother would smile and try to put a good face on cold reality as she worried about how he would feed himself. And he still might not be able to write. It might be too late.

He breathes in, slowly, and thinks of tuning his guitar, of the sharp _zing!_ as he changes chords. His calluses are long gone, but his guitar is still in his closet.

 _Someday_ , he thinks, as the five-minute bell rings. Then: _maybe._

“Where is Tilani?” Danarius asks, seating himself in the far left chair, waving away the makeup artist and sound technician who flutter in from the wings. “If she’s late again –”

“Oh, do you _ever_ stop complaining?” says Tilani, sweeping into the studio, dropping her coat, bag, and hat into the arms of three separate PAs. “Please try to smile tonight, Danarius, the ratings tank when you glower. Hadriana, a pleasure, as always.” Fenris’ mouth twitches as Tilani slides into her seat and brushes a curl into place, beaming at the PA who brings her a cup of tea. “Oh, thank you so much. Well, let’s see what the day brings us, shall we?”

***

What Fenris wants is this: the elusive, brief _spark_ that turns a song into art, into something worth remembering and singing for the rest of your life. All he needs is the right voice, the right key to unlock all the songs waiting within him. He hasn’t found it yet. It may not exist, not where he can reach it, and it feels a little farther away every day he wakes up to a new set of near-impossible demands.

But maybe. Maybe.

***

The auditions go quickly at this stage; two minutes, and then thirty seconds for a brief bit of _mentorship_ from the judges. Half these auditions won’t even make it on air, just the ones deemed amusing or inspiring or embarrassing enough to appeal to a mass audience. Fenris can tell within the first three notes who will go on to the next level: the red-headed Orlesian woman will go, and so will the qunari with the enormous horns and the entire fan club cheering him on from the greenroom, but the bald elf gets cut off within the first minute, as does the barely-audible Cousland who insisted on bringing in his mabari.

“It takes all kinds,” murmurs Tilani, as the show cuts to a commercial and the Cousland silently leads his dog away. “I’d say we’re doing well so far.” She winks at Fenris as she accepts a fresh cup of tea from her mustached assistant, and leans back in her chair. “What do you think, Hadriana?”

Hadriana opens her mouth, but catches herself before she replies and goes back to ignoring Tilani. Safe in his dark corner, Fenris rolls his eyes. So long as Danarius sits at one end of the table, Hadriana won’t dare disagree with him, or bother speaking with Tilani off-camera.

Tilani sighs, but the shrill of the warning bell interrupts any rejoinder she might have had. A shaft of disappointment passes through Fenris; no one, from Danarius on down, can match Tilani in a war of words, and he’d been looking forward to whatever sweet little insult she had ready for Hadriana. The PAs still laugh over the night Tilani asked Hadriana if she _planned_ to clash with herself and Danarius simultaneously.

“And five — four — three —” The cameraman flashes the last two numbers silently, and the next contestant is ushered in.

Fenris lets the show fade into the background. There’s a tune in the back of his head, something slow, something in a minor key, low and heavy, and he needs to capture it before it evaporates — all he needs is a hook to build the song around. His heart beats a little faster as the tune gets louder, just a four-note melody, over and over.

But it’s enough. He won’t lose this song, like he’s lost so many others since he took this job. It’s his, safe in his heart, until he has pen and paper and fifteen minutes to himself. Four notes are more than he’s had in years.

He comes back to himself as Tilani laughs, a warm, throaty sound, and glances at the stage on reflex. The notes still echo in his head as the contestant’s face comes clear: high color in her cheeks, blue eyes bright as glass. A woman, small and dark-haired, clutching a _mandolin_ , of all things, and grinning at the judges.

“And what’s your name, young lady?” asks Danarius, all polite interest, smiling slightly. Fenris’ chest tightens; he knows that smile, and he knows the echoing one on Hadriana’s face. This woman, with her mandolin and her cheap, colorful dress, is going no farther. She’s lucky if they let her sing at all.

“Hawke,” she says, in a clear voice, higher than Fenris expected, blurred by a soft Fereldan accent. Her smile doesn’t falter in the face of Danarius’ cool assessment, and she doesn’t shift or stutter. “Well, the last name’s Hawke. Works as a stage name.”

“Of course it does,” says Tilani, encouragingly. “What do you have for us?”

Hawke hefts her mandolin, plucks a single note. “It’s a folk song,” she says, “from back home.”

“From Ferelden, you mean,” says Hadriana, with a little laugh. Fenris can almost hear the viewers in Orlais and Tevinter, muttering to themselves. _A Fereldan. Should’ve stayed at home with her dogs._

Danarius gestures for her to start, and though his eyes linger on her, Fenris knows that Danarius isn’t hearing a single note that pours out of Hawke’s mouth. He’s forgotten her, discounted her and moved on. Hadriana pays a little more attention, and Tilani is clearly enjoying herself, tapping her finger against her tea cup as Hawke sings.

And Fenris — Fenris is gone. The key turns in the lock.

Hawke’s never had a voice lesson in her life, that much is clear. She slurs her trills, she shapes her words too far back in her mouth. But her voice _shines_ , bright as sunlight on the sea, as she sings a song older than her country.

She’s pretty when she speaks, sweet-faced when she holds still. And when she sings, there is no one else Fenris wants to look at, ever again.

Danarius cuts her off after forty-three seconds, and Fenris jolts back into his body, heart sinking as Hawke’s face closes over, ready for the worst.

“That was lovely,” purrs Danarius, “but it lacks a certain —”

“Pop sensibility?” Hadriana puts in, smiling when Danarius nods his approval.

“Precisely. You’ve a perfectly charming voice, very well-suited to what you sing, but…” Danarius waves his hand, not needing to finish the sentence. Every word is an insult, calculated to deflate Hawke and send her home fully aware of what Danarius thinks of her: a Fereldan who aimed too high, someone a little tawdry, a little cheap.

“I thought it was lovely,” says Tilani, kindly, truthfully, but it’s too late. Two out of three x’s flash on the judges’ screens, and Hawke walks away, cradling her mandolin, all the color gone from her cheeks. She won’t even make it on air, and she knows it.

Fenris watches her, four notes in his ears, the click of the lock a counterpoint.

“You’re an asshole, Danarius,” says Tilani, at the next commercial break. She says it smiling, all her teeth bared. “And _you_ ,” she says to Hadriana, “are a waste of air. The two of you —”

“Spare us the tirade,” says Danarius. “You’re not saying anything new.” He snaps his fingers, not even looking over his shoulder at Fenris. “Tea, my dear,” he calls. “And _do_ be quick about it, we only have — Fenris?”

Without thinking, Fenris heads for the stage doors. Danarius calls his name, progressively sharper, while Hadriana makes shocked, helpless noises — but Fenris only walks faster, till he’s almost running. On the way past, he catches Tilani’s eye, and she winks again, then spins in her chair to block Hadriana and Danarius’ view.

“I do believe your assistant just tendered his resignation,” she says, as Fenris slams the door behind him.

***

He finds Hawke in the vast greenroom, her entire family — father, mother, sister, brother — grouped around her, in various stages of reassurance and belligerence. Her siblings look ready to throw punches, while her parents stroke her hair and shoulder.

Hawke is crying, wiping her eyes and laughing at something her father said, when Fenris reaches them.

“Excuse me,” he says, and stops as five faces turn to him. The brother takes a step forward to block his approach, and the sister glares, arms folded over her chest.

“What d'you want?” says the brother, his accent far thicker than Hawke’s. Fenris realizes, with a fresh, bitter twist in his chest, that Hawke must have practiced, toned down her accent to present herself as what the judges wanted, and he wonders how many others have done the same over the years, and been just as embarrassed as Hawke.

He never noticed. He’ll have to do better, from now on.

“It’s fine, Carver,” says Hawke, wiping her eyes again. Her nose is red, but she offers Fenris a little smile. “Is there something you need?”

“I —” Fenris breathes in again, thinks of four notes, and smiles back. “I write music,” he says, after Hawke cocks an eyebrow at him. “Your song — your voice. I want to write for you. Songs, that is.”

Hawke’s sister starts to protest, but Hawke touches her arm, and takes a step closer to Fenris. “You work for Danarius,” she says, testing, eyes intent and not quite friendly. “Why would you want to write for _me_?”

“Look out for cameras,” mutters her sister, her expression mirroring Carver’s exactly. “They  _love_ to do these gotcha bits. I told you we’d have better luck on _Ferelden’s Got Talent_.”

Hawke shushes her, without taking her gaze from Fenris. “Well?” she asks, still guarded.

Fenris wishes he’d spent more time practicing his flattery, then swallows and pushes forward. “When you sang, I didn’t want to hear anything else,” he says, as sincerely as he can. “It’s been…well, forever, since I felt that way.”

“Maker,” whispers Hawke’s father. “It’s like a movie. Should we leave you two alone?”

“No!” says Hawke’s siblings, as Hawke says “ _Yes_ ”, the color rising in her cheeks again. Her parents drag her siblings away, still protesting, and then it’s just Fenris and Hawke, facing each other over three feet of worn carpet.

She’s so lovely up close it could stop Fenris’ heart. It’s not fair, that someone can look and sound so beautiful all at once.

“So,” says Hawke. “Do I get your name?” She barely comes to his shoulder, but she faces him without blinking, forthright and calm, as if she could wait a thousand years for his answer.

“Fenris,” he says, and holds out his hand a beat later. Hawke clasps his fingers, carefully, and lets go almost before he registers how warm and rough her hand is.

“All right, Fenris,” she says, with a new smile, bright and sly and warm, “what do you want to write?”

There’ll be hell to pay — Danarius will make sure of that — but this isn’t a mistake. Fenris feels it in his bones, the _rightness_ of this choice. Those four notes are just the beginning.

“Whatever you want to sing,” he says, and Hawke laughs, all delight, as she takes his hand in hers again. This time, she doesn’t let go.

“Let’s get out of here, then,” she says, pulling him toward the door. “We’ve got work to do.”


	2. Chapter 2

“He’s not my boyfriend,” Hawke says into her beer.

She’s _very_ aware that Varric and Isabela are trying not to roll their eyes at her, so she _very_ obviously focuses all her attention on drawing circles in the sugar spilled on the table so they don’t sprain something holding back.

“For someone who’s _not_ your boyfriend,” says Aveline, as she reaches over Hawke’s head for the ketchup, “you spend an awful lot of time alone with him.”

“We’re collaborating!” Hawke shoves the ketchup out of Aveline’s reach, and doesn’t flinch when Aveline glares at her. Of all the people at this table, she didn’t think _Aveline_ would end up siding with Isabela and Varric. “He hasn’t been in Kirkwall long, so there’s a lot we have to get done, and I’m — I’m learning a lot, so —”

“Clearly not anything you can actually _use_ ,” Isabela mutters, retrieving the ketchup and handing it to Aveline. Hawke boggles — never in her life did she think she’d experience such bald-faced _betrayal_ — but Isabela only sighs. “Oh, just go lay one on him, sweet thing. I’m tired of watching you two make eyes at each other over his guitar.”

Hawke falls back against the exhausted leather cushions on her side of the booth. “We don’t _make eyes_ ,” she says, with complete honesty. Fenris certainly doesn’t _make eyes_ at her. He barely makes eye _contact_.

Not that Hawke is complaining. If he’s not looking at her, she’s free to look at _him_ , while he’s curved over his guitar, changing chords with those hands. His _hands_.

Varric clears his throat, bringing Hawke’s attention back to where it needs to be — at the table, where her so-called _friends_ are all smirking at her — and lifts his hand as Edwina swings by. “I think Hawke here needs something a bit stronger than the usual swill,” he says. “Make it a round of shots for the table, and a double for Hawke.”

Edwina snorts and clumps off to the bar while Hawke turns a frown on Varric. “If you think you’re going to get me drunk enough to spill all the sordid details of my rehearsal sessions, you’re going to be one disappointed dwarf,” she says. “There are no sordid details, unless polyrhythms count.”

“Oh, please _stop_.” Isabela groans, and puts her head down on the table. “I’ll die of boredom.” Merrill surfaces from her book long enough to murmur an agreement.

Hawke bites her tongue against several sharp replies, and goes back to her warm beer. It’s terrible, and the service is worse, but Varric somehow has a bottomless tab here at the Hanged Man, so here’s where they spend their time. At least Corff stocks the good whiskey, and the fries are decent.

“What _have_ you two been working on, then?” Aveline asks, as the shots arrive. “And where is Fenris? I thought you told him we’d be here tonight.”

A ring of expectant faces meet Hawke’s gaze when she looks up. “Well,” she hedges. “I did. But he's…busy.” That’s one word for it; he hadn’t replied to her text, though that’s not uncommon. When a writing fit takes him, Fenris tends to forget the rest of the world. Hawke doesn’t take it personally, but she still feels that she needs to defend him. “He’s writing, and he’s still unpacking from his move, and…”

“He’s unemployed,” someone drawls as they sink into the seat beside hers. “How busy can he be?” Anders scoops up one of her shots, and downs it before offering her a wide grin. “What? I’m dying to see him again.”

Somehow, Hawke doubts that — Anders hasn’t quite forgiven her for auditioning for  _Thedosian Idol_ last year instead of going on tour with him, and he’s managed to blame Fenris, even though Hawke hadn’t even known Fenris _existed_ at that point. “Oh, of course you are, Anders,” she says, sweetly. “How could I have forgotten how much you two have in common?”

Anders once gave an impassioned and nearly-incoherent speech — unasked-for and unprovoked — about how songs with lyrics were outdated and reductive, and that music needed to be freed from the _tyranny of meter and consonance_ , so Hawke doubts anything productive will come from him spending any length of time in the same room as Fenris. It might, however, be _hilarious_.

Anders, to his credit, just laughs and slings an arm around her shoulders. “I’m always happy to help some other poor soul break away from the chains of tradition,” he says. “It may be I can convince this Fenris that his talents would be better spent in exploration and experimentation, rather than preserving the status quo.”

 _On second thought_ , Hawke thinks, shrugging off Anders’ arm with a new, sour taste in her mouth, _they can never be in the same room, ever again._

Varric reminds the table that there’s a round of shots going to waste in front of them, and Hawke forces hers down with a smile, and then slips away after leaving a few silver on the table for a tip. No one notices because they’re all debating whether to head out to Darktown for some release party or to keep drinking where they are, so she’s out the door without having to do a round of goodbyes.

It’s a crisp night, not quite cold enough to make the walk to her apartment miserable, and with the air edged with woodsmoke and rain, it’s almost pleasant. The bike punks at the park wave and call her name, but she doesn’t slow down as she tosses them a grin. The Hanged Man isn’t in the worst neighborhood in Kirkwall, though it’s far from the best, and getting mugged once was enough for a lifetime.

She’s the most disreputable person on the street tonight, however; her combat boots and the  _don’t-talk-to-me_ cant of her hips ensure there’s a wide berth between her and anyone else, so she’s alone with her thoughts all the way home. And, because she has no self-control or self-respect, she thinks about Fenris.

There’s no way he’s unaware of her ridiculous crush on him. For one thing, Hawke knows she can’t play cool worth spit, and even if her friends weren’t making jokes about _close collaboration_ every time Fenris made an appearance, there’d still be Carver and Bethany, glowering down at Fenris every chance they got.

So, he knows. He might not know how every nerve in her body wakes up whenever he gets close, or how she wants to make him smile more than anything in the world, and he definitely doesn’t know that she listens to the demos he made for her _way_ too often — but he knows how she feels. And he hasn’t said a damn word.

 _Well, can’t win them all, can you?_ She kicks her way through a pile of dead leaves and tries to shake off the self-pity. They’re friends. They’re collaborators. He’s teaching her how to play guitar and she’s almost got enough saved to get them actual studio time — and after that, it won’t mean anything that she got laughed off stage a year ago. All that’ll matter are the songs. Fenris’ songs.

She’s not dumb enough to think the lyrics will ever be about her — but it’s nice to dream, sometimes.

The fifteen-minute walk to her building burns off her buzz, and she’s cold and tired by the time she makes it up to her crappy little apartment on the fourth floor. Just a one-bedroom, nothing fancy, but it’s got a decent kitchen and hardwood floors, so that makes up for the smokers above her and the family from the Anderfels next door that keep trying to convert her. No one complains when she practices, and really, when is she going to find a deal like this again?

Hawke fishes her keys out of her bag, then jumps back when a shape detaches itself from the shadows on the other end of the landing. She has pepper spray, helpfully dangling off her  _other_ set of keys, so she psyches herself up to deliver a kick to the balls before she realizes it’s Fenris, silent as a cat on the worn carpet.

“Maker’s balls, Fenris _,_ ” she says. “You couldn’t have texted me?” She shakes her hair over her face while she unlocks the door, to hide her flush, then pushes it open and lets him in. “Everything okay?”

He nods, standing in the middle of her narrow kitchen and looking at the framed prints on the wall. “I’m fine,” he says, shortly. “All is well.”

Hawke waits, taking her time over relocking the door and toeing off her boots. When he doesn’t say anything else,  she ventures, “I missed you tonight.”

 _Andraste’s tits,_ _“we”, Hawke. Is it really that hard?_ We _missed you tonight?_

But that wouldn’t be true, would it? She knows everyone likes Fenris, enough to buy him drinks and coax him into talking when she’s not around, but _miss_ isn’t the right word for them. Just for her.

He looks up, startled, eyes so green Hawke has to grit her teeth not to reach out for him. They don’t touch, other than when he corrects her finger position on her guitar, so she holds still while he stares at her, wordlessly.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I was…occupied. Writing.”

“Oh, you’re forgiven then,” Hawke says, grinning at him as the tension melts out of her spine. Fenris writing can only mean good things. “Was it productive?”

Her grin must be infectious; Fenris smiles back, one corner of his mouth lifting slyly. “I should think so,” he says. “Something new — inspiration struck, so I’m afraid what we’ve been working on has taken a backseat.”

Hawke waves away his apology before it leaves his mouth. “It’s fine, totally fine — is there something you want to show me?” She manages not to sound _too_ eager, for once.

Fenris pulls a tape out of his jacket pocket. “It’s rough,” he says, like he always does, “but I —” Hawke snatches the tape out of his hands before he can say another word. “Well, all right then.”

She wrinkles her nose at him — _sorry, can’t help myself!_ — and heads into her living room. She has her father’s old tape player — his old 8-track and record player, too, because Malcolm Hawke is an unrepentant hippie _and_ hoarder, and Hawke isn’t sure which horrifies her mother more — next to her busted couch, and she slides it in and presses play as Fenris sits down next to her.

For the first six months they _collaborated_ , Fenris still lived in Tevinter, untangling himself from a web of obligations to Danarius, and so most of their work had been done via Skype and mailing tapes back and forth to each other. In her heart, Hawke misses those months: the hushed conversations late at night, listening as he sang to her in a cracked, unused voice that warmed like old leather after a few bars, the look on his face when she tried out the songs he sent to her. She’d spent half of her time walking around exhausted but smiling like an idiot, thinking that this must be how long-dead gardens felt when they came back to life.

Then he came to Kirkwall, and within two rehearsals in person, Hawke knew she was well and truly fucked, though not in any way that Isabela approved of. 

She told herself not to think too hard about it; he needed a voice, she needed someone who understood music. It’s mutually beneficial. It’s just not love. At least not for him.

The song filling her living room, though, is a love song, and she flushes hot, then cold, as she listens.

Fenris’ songs are historical, or they’re about finding identity or comprehending loss. They’re not _love songs_ , about the quiet you can find in a night shared with someone who ignites your blood and —

His voice cracks a little on the tape as he strains for the higher notes, while he shifts beside her, till their knees almost touch. She can feel his body heat through her tights, smell him on every inhale. From the corner of her eye, she sees his hands, clasped tight.

The song hits the chorus, back in Fenris’ range now, and his voice curls through the room: _a door in the garden, and you_. _And you._

There’s no way she can sing this song. Not feeling like she does, when she’s going to be singing every damn note to _him._

It’s a shame — Fenris knows her voice inside and out by now, and there’s no doubt in Hawke’s mind that she would blow this song out of the water. It’s more pop than she’s used to, but it’s dead-center in her range, and with a good bass line behind the melody, it’d be a perfect earworm of a song.

It _is_ perfect.

Danarius’ voice fills her head, delicate and polite and malicious.

_It lacks a certain…_

_Pop sensibility_?

A year later, it still stings. But if those judges could hear her sing _this_ song —

No. There’d be no hiding, once she puts her voice to these words. They fold around her, inviting and sweet as cider, and Fenris is a warm, waiting presence at her side, but she _can’t sing this song._

The last note fades into the musty air of her apartment, and Hawke takes a deep breath. “It's…” She licks her lips, knowing Fenris isn’t breathing while he waits for her judgment. “It’s amazing,” she says, and can’t help smiling when he exhales. “But you knew that already.” She tries to make it a joke, but her voice wobbles and she buries her face in her hands, ready to burst out laughing or crying. It’s past midnight and she’s in love with an elf who just wrote the most perfect love song on the planet and _fuck her life, fuck it in the ear._

“Hawke?” Fenris touches her shoulder, tentative but kind, and it takes all of Hawke’s control not to lean into him. “Is something wrong?”

“Nope,” she says into her hands. “I just — it’s gorgeous, Fenris, really. I…” She sighs, then sits up and offers him a smile. “Sorry, I’m being an —”

She gets a split-second glimpse of his face, open and sincere and oh, Maker, it’s too much for her heart to take, him looking at her like that, and then he cups her face in his hands and kisses her, hot and sweet and full of longing.

“I wrote it,” he says, voice rough enough to raise gooseflesh on her arms and back, “for _you_ , Hawke. Will you sing it for me?”

Breathless, Hawke nods, her lips swollen and tender from the kiss. “I’ll have to rewind the tape,” she says, inanely, even as her hands slide over his shoulders and around his neck.

Fenris kisses her again, gently now, like a man with all the time in the world. “Yes,” he whispers, “you will.” But he doesn’t stop kissing her, and Hawke is too distracted by how lithe and lean he feels under her hands to remind him.

 _Guess I don’t have to hide after all,_ she thinks, laughing through their kisses, her heart leaping when she hears Fenris laughing too.

***

Her stool wobbles a little, but as long as she holds still, it shouldn’t be a problem. Hawke picks a loose thread off her dress, trying to ignore how hard her hands are shaking, and breathes in slowly. This isn’t any different from any other show she’s done. Well, aside from how it’s not just her and her mandolin on stage this time, that is.

She folds her hands in her lap, then glances out toward the audience. The Iron Horse isn’t a huge venue, but it’s packed to the rafters: aside from the usual Saturday night crowd, her family is packed around a rickety table off stage right, and the gang takes up the three tables behind them. Bethany gives her a thumb’s-up when their gazes meet, and even Aveline beams at her.

No, not just at her — at _them_.

Fenris clears his throat lightly, and gives her a fleeting smile when she meets his eyes.  _Ready_? he asks, silently, with a lift of his brows.

 _Ready,_ Hawke thinks in his direction, and adjusts her microphone.

“This is a love song,” she tells the audience, and pretends not to hear Isabela whispering  _finally_ from her seat in the back.


	3. Chapter 3

Fenris’ list of positive things in Kirkwall is a short one, but given that he had no such list for Tevinter, even a short list feels luxurious.

Kirkwall has cheap rent, if somewhat negligent landlords; it has free wireless; it has a farmer’s market every Tuesday and Saturday; it has the Hanged Man’s drink specials and half-price fries; it has the wind off the sea to wash away the stink of its streets.

It has the first friends he has made in years. It has places to hear music, places to _play_ music.

It has Hawke.

The list of negative things — the distance from his mother and sister, crushing debt, a soul-eating job as a security guard at the high school, obnoxious neighbors, the ever-present reek of fish — is far longer, but much lighter. It took him three years to realize it, but he’s _happy_. Stressed, tired, sometimes hungry, but never _thwarted_. When he opens the door to his apartment, and looks at the second-hand couch and the battered table, he always wants to smile. He wants to _dance,_ a feeling not lessened by the picture on his fridge: Hawke, sunburned, her feet buried in the sand, smiling at the camera. At _him_. There had been a bonfire later that night, and singing until his throat burned and the sun stained the far horizon. Driving home, Aveline tuned the radio to an oldies station while Hawke fell asleep with her head in his lap, and he thought of his guitar in the trunk as each song melted away into crisp morning light.

A life he never expected, and never dreamed of — and it was all his. How many songs had he gotten out of that day and night? Too many to count, but all he has to do is look at that picture and more come, flooding out of him.

An imperfect life, but _his_ now, for three years, and he’s more than happy. He’s _content_.

***

He’s early to his usual Friday night dinner date with Hawke, even though _date_ makes the event sound much fancier than it actually is. They meet at a restaurant halfway between their jobs, and whoever arrives first gets to order for both of them. They eat, and talk over their days — as if Hawke hadn’t been texting him every spare moment — and plan their weekends.

It’s a routine, unexpectedly sweet, and Fenris doesn’t bother hiding his smile when he sees Hawke making her way toward him. She tastes like cinnamon when she kisses him.

“Oof,” says Hawke, by way of greeting. She drops into the seat across from his, then drags an extra chair up to the table and props her feet on it. “Sorry I’m late. Madame and Monsieur kept us late for a meeting. But hey! More overtime!”

“Not a terrible compensation,” Fenris replies, going back to his notebook. Hawke does vaguely administrative support for an Orlesian couple, who massively overpay her to make up for sharing an office with their atrocious children. “Any new disasters today?”

“None, thank the Maker.” Hawke nudges his leg with her foot. “Well, other than my employers’ personal lives. What about you? Any teenage delinquents to report?”

“None at all. Truly a wonder.” Fenris adds a last note to his sheet music, then closes his notebook and curves his hand around Hawke’s ankle. “What’s the plan for tonight?”

Hawke shrugs out of her jacket and stuffs it into her bag. “Mm, not sure. There’s always the Hanged Man, and I guarantee Varric and Isabela will be there. I don’t know — I’m feeling pretty tired, so I was thinking dinner, then back to your place for the night?”

A familiar, private warmth lodges itself behind Fenris’ ribs. “Exactly what I was thinking,” he says. His apartment is still mostly empty — no curtains, no rugs, and he only has a bathmat because Hawke gave him one for his birthday, along with a meaningful look — but he loves that it catches the morning sun and the smell from the bakery half a block away, and he loves waking up to find Hawke curled in his sheets.

_Three more things to add to the list,_ he notes to himself, as Hawke untangles her wallet from her bag, then leans across the table to kiss him again.

They finish their dinner as the evening rush begins, and have to squeeze through the crowd gathered between the counter and the door. Fenris keeps a tight hold on Hawke’s hand — if he lets go, she’ll be lost in the crush, and even in her work heels, she’s not tall enough to see over the crowd — and shoulders his way toward the front door.

The hallway before the door is narrow, and papered from floor to ceiling in flyers and ads for everything from yoga to tattoo parlors to car dealerships. Fenris steps aside to let an older couple pass, and idly scans the walls for anything new.

A neon-and-black poster catches his eye, and his stomach drops, straight to his feet.

“Fenris?” Hawke presses close, squeezing his hand. “You okay?”

He nods — a total lie, he’s not okay, not at all — then clears his throat and heads for the door. Hawke says his name again, but cuts herself off as they pass the flyer.

“Oh, shit,” she murmurs, and pulls him to a stop once they’ve walked out from under the awning. “Fenris? Hey, it’s okay, it’s fine —”

“It’s not _fine_.” Fenris yanks his hand out of hers, and feels an immediate surge of guilt when Hawke’s face falls. He _knows_ he’s being ridiculous, but these past three years have been _his,_ and now…

“I thought I was done with the bastard,” he says, hating how his voice almost shakes. Three years, and he’s still not done. It’s pathetic. “Now he’s bringing that awful show here, to Kirkwall, and — the hell with it!”

“It’ll be fine,” Hawke says, eyes cool and serious. She folds her arms over her chest, lifts her chin. “The show’ll be in Hightown, he’ll never come down here.”

“I _know_ that,” Fenris snaps. “But —”

“But what?” Hawke raises an eyebrow. “Talk to me, Fenris, please.”

“What’s there to talk about?” Danarius is a miserable bastard, who made his life a living hell before and after he quit, but the man’s not petty enough to track him down now, years later.

_Or is he?_ whispers a laughing voice in the back of his head. _You know him better than most. You did his bidding for years. Can you really tell yourself that he wouldn’t try to screw you over, again?_

He shrugs into his jacket, eyes on his shoes and the pavement. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I’m being an ass.”

“A bit,” says Hawke cheerfully. When he looks up, she’s smiling, her eyes kind and a little sad, but not pitying. “But you’ve got a good reason. Danarius is a shit human. A person-shaped cold sore. Six feet two inches of MRSA.”

Fenris bursts out laughing in spite of himself, and tries to cover it with a cough. The cold in his gut fades. _Oh, Hawke_ , he thinks, reaching out to touch her cheek. “I’m sorry,” he tells her, meeting her eyes this time. “And…thank you.”

“I wasn’t finished.” Hawke’s smile widens. “He’s a festering —”

Fenris claps a hands over her mouth — he’s had plenty of experience with Hawke’s more creative insults, and he’d rather keep his dinner where it is — then pulls her into a tight hug. “I appreciate the insults,” he says, grinning at the streetlights as Hawke tries to wriggle free. “But you’re right. It’ll be fine.”

The voice in his head laughs again. _Really, Fenris?_

_Really_ , he thinks, and turns his back on the voice and all it could say.

Hawke breaks away, her hair mussed and cheeks pinked, and grabs his hand. “All right,” she says, dragging him along the sidewalk. “Let’s get home.”

A brief, vivid flash of memory cuts across his mind: Hawke smiling at him in the greenroom, reaching for his hand and saying _we’ve got work to do_.

So Danarius has come to Kirkwall. Let him. These three years still belong to Fenris, and Danarius can’t touch them.

***

“You should write a concept album,” says Hawke, instead of pillow talk.

What’s left of Fenris’ afterglow evaporates, but he smiles into the dark as he strokes the ball of her shoulder. “Why,” he says, “would I do that?”

“Oh, come on, it’d be amazing!” Hawke weaves her cold feet between his shins. “Something medieval, you know? With knights and – Fenris, stop _groaning,_ ”

“I ask again, _why_ would I do that?” He tilts his head, though most of Hawke’s face is hidden by the dark curtain of her hair. With the tips of his fingers, he brushes a few strands aside, and finds her smiling sleepily at him.

“Because you’d be good at it,” she replies, so sincerely his chest aches. “And because I want you to write songs about me being a sexy wizard.”

Fenris groans and rolls away from her. “No. No songs about sexy _wizards_ , or _magic_ , or _dragons_ –”

“You’re missing out on the whole comics store geek market!” Hawke runs her hand down his side, and kisses the back of his neck.

“I’ll live,” he growls, glad that she can’t see his smile, or know that his mind is already ticking away possible song topics.

“And you could be a warrior, with a huge sword –” Hawke giggles against his skin, and Fenris curses whatever god or spirit gave her such a miserable excuse for a sense of humor, even as he smiles. “A _huge_ sword, with totally useless but attractive armor.”

“Please stop objectifying me,” Fenris pleads, capturing her hand in his and tugging her close. “How long have you been thinking about this?”

“Oh, not long. Just a stroke of genius.”

He snorts, then rolls on his back so Hawke can pillow her head on his chest. “That’s not what I’d call it,” he murmurs. Hawke sighs, but says nothing else. Her breathing slows, deepens, and Fenris is content to listen to her doze — content, that is, till a thought strikes him.

“It’s not just…” He pauses to choose his words, then presses on. “It’s not just for me. Danarius is a bastard, and I knew that going in, but…”

“But what?” Hawke prompts, a moment later. All the drowsiness is gone from her voice; she sounds wide awake, though nothing in her posture has changed.

“He treats everyone like trash,” says Fenris. The venom in his voice surprises him. He hasn’t _let_ himself be angry about Danarius in years, because being angry means there’s still a tie, and Fenris wanted, _needed_ to be severed, as completely as possible — but he’s furious. “The people on the show — he mocked them, he tore them apart, and he sent them home with a smile. Tilani did her best, but —” He swallows, willing away the bitter taste in his throat.

“But he’s got his little toady, and everyone’s too scared of him to make him stop?” Hawke puts her hand on his chest, rubbing a light circle over his heart. “I’m sorry, love.”

Fenris closes his eyes at the word. Some of his hopeless anger fades, but the core remains, still molten. “I don’t know why I’m still so angry. It’s done, I left, I —”

_I have you._

“What more do I want?” he asks the ceiling. Car lights shine through his blinds, fan wide, and then disappear.

Hawke makes a thoughtful noise. “Revenge?” she asks.

Fenris laughs, with no humor at all. “And what good would that do?”

_A great deal_ , says a new voice, sly and confident. _Imagine his face if you came to audition, with your own material._

The idea does have a certain appeal. It’s too much to hope that Danarius would have an aneurysm at the mere sight of Fenris — but defiantly facing his old boss, after the bastard used every legal and not-so-legal means to keep Fenris employed and miserable, and _failed_? That could be its own reward.

“There’s a new judge this season,” Hawke says. “Something Lavellan. She’s got a new record label down in Ferelden. Varric knows a few people who work there.”

“Why am I not surprised?” Fenris asks. “Varric knows everyone.”

“Well, yeah, but he says she’s fair. Tough, but fair. Kind of an ice queen, but…” Hawke shrugs, then sits up and reaches for the lamp next to his bed. The sudden flare of light washes over his sparse bedroom — a bed, a bookcase, and a closet, nothing more — but Hawke glows in the center of it, all clean, bright colors. Fenris clenches his hands to resist the urge to pull her back down to the mattress. “I don’t know. Maybe there’s an even playing field this year. Maybe not.” She screws her mouth to the side, brows pinching together, and gives him a sharp, assessing look. “You’re thinking about auditioning, aren’t you?”

“Thinking about it, yes,” he hedges.

Hawke falls back against the wall. Her brows stay furrowed, her mouth keeps its thoughtful cast. “It’s not a bad idea,” she says slowly. “But…”

“But what?” he asks, propping himself up on his elbow. His heart pounds against his ribs. Oh, but it’d be sweet — Hadriana gaping, useless as always, Tilani coolly amused, and Danarius’ composure slipping, for just one moment.

And then he’d be laughed off-stage, out of the studio, and possibly out of Kirkwall. Auditioning would mean throwing down a gauntlet Danarius couldn’t resist. It’d mean declaring open war.

“But it’s a little obvious,” Hawke says, mirroring his thoughts. “I mean, it’s deserved, but — and hear me out — what if I went? You know he’s forgotten _me_ , some punked-out little Fereldan, not worth spit. What if I auditioned again?”

“You _would_?” Fenris asks, before he can stop himself.

Hawke gives him a hard little smile. “I think I’m a stronger singer than I was three years ago,” she says. “And I know better than to show up with my damn mandolin this time.”

Fenris chuckles. “Well, there’s that,” he says, and then cold reality dampens his spirits. “Hawke, are you —”

She leans close enough to press her forehead to his, and kisses him. “What if I auditioned with one of _our_ songs?” she whispers. “It might get us nowhere, but — but what if someone who matters hears? Maybe that’d be _better_ than freaking out Danarius for five minutes. What if we get _both_? I mean, that’s a best-case scenario, but maybe Lavellan…” She shrugs. “It’s just an idea. But what if it works?”

“What if, indeed,” Fenris says, running his fingers through her hair. “This could be phenomenally stupid,” he tells her, before she kisses him again. But it would be satisfying beyond measure to rub this in Danarius’ bloated face — for himself, for Hawke, for everyone who came hopeful and left humiliated.

“Or,” Hawke says, her lips brushing his. “It could be _hilarious_.”

Her mouth is warm, and Fenris decides to let himself be distracted. He can chalk up this idea, stupid or hilarious or both, to endorphins, if they decide to pursue it.

_If_.

***

The idea turns out to be neither phenomenally stupid nor hilarious.

It’s worse. It’s _successful._

“Well,” says Hawke, the night after her audition, the night before she leaves for _filming_ , and _competing_. Neither of them have spoken for five minutes. “I didn’t expect _that_. Did you?”

Fenris just shakes his head.

***

What follows are the worst four weeks of Fenris’ life, watching Hawke slowly rise from the mass of initial auditions, to the semi-finals, and then to the finals. A part of him wonders if it’s Tilani’s doing, if she’s helping Hawke advance for her own amusement, but Hawke’s power is — undeniable.

Three years ago, she had been charming. Now, with three years of training and playing show, she’s arresting, all huge blue eyes and demure smiles. This time, she doesn’t bother to hide her accent, and only smiles wider when Danarius makes pointed little references to _natural talent_ with Hadriana simpering beside him.

Tilani smiles, Lavellan just listens, and Fenris misses Hawke. Four weeks, and he hasn’t touched Hawke once. He watches her on TV, smiling and singing and he _misses_ her, like an amputated limb. There hasn’t been a day in two years that they haven’t kissed or shared each other’s warmth.

Maker help him, he’s even started going to the gym with Carver, just to have something to do.

It’s not enough, and every night, he watches Danarius watch Hawke, and he hates the man all over again.

“What were we thinking?” he asks Hawke, during one of their late-night phone calls. Hawke is one of five contestants left; tomorrow, she’ll sing the song they wrote, the song that got her on the damn show — some pop music disaster they distilled from every Top 40 song of the last decade — and Danarius will know.

He’ll know, because Fenris will be in the audience, cheering Hawke on.

“We were thinking about proving your asshole ex-boss wrong,” Hawke whispers back. The cameras are gone for the day, but the whole experience of being filmed has left her more than a little paranoid. “It worked a little too well, so now we’re improvising.”

He nearly says _I wish I hadn’t let you do this_ , but that’d be the biggest lie of his life. No one _lets_ Hawke do anything, least of all him. It works both ways, but that’s little comfort now.

“Besides,” she says. “I’ve survived this far. We’re sure to get _some_ notice, after tomorrow night. And it’s been fun, sort of. Everyone’s so deadly serious about being here, it makes me feel a little bad about being here for, you know, revenge.”

Fenris closes his eyes. “Hawke.”

She sighs, the heavy breath making the connection shiver with static. “All right. All joking aside, I really think this will turn out well.”

“If he doesn’t figure it out, and humiliate you in my place,” Fenris mutters. Why hadn’t that occurred to him two months ago? _Endorphins_ , he reminds himself, but it’s no comfort. “On national television.”

“This was my stupid idea, Fenris,” says Hawke. “It’ll be fine. One way or another. I’ve got our song. What else do I need?” She pauses, long enough for Fenris to breathe in once, then says “Well, other than you.”

He smiles, in spite of the nervous quaver in his gut. His ridiculous, brave, bright-hearted Hawke. “I’m yours,” he says. “And I’ll be there tomorrow.”

“You’d better be,” Hawke says, her voice suspiciously tight.

_***_

“You’re sure we didn’t have to dress up?” asks Leandra, for the third time.

Carver groans and slides down in his seat, his face toward the ceiling. Beside him, Bethany fans herself with her hand and cranes her neck toward the stage. “No, Mom,” she says, fondly but absently. “You’re fine like that.”

Leandra picks at her skirt, muttering quietly, until Malcolm draws her close and kisses the top of her head. “More than fine,” he says. “Besides, all of Thedas’ eyes will be on our darling daughter, so you could be wearing a tracksuit and no one would care.”

“Thank you, dear, that’s very comforting,” Leandra replies dryly.

For his part, Fenris sits very still in his seat, his shoulders back and his head high, and watches for Danarius. He couldn’t hide if he wanted to — the camera will be on their little group at least once while Hawke sings, as it always is the night the finalists’ families are invited in — but he wants to see Danarius first. Maybe it’s ridiculous, but he wants to set those terms, at least, and be composed when he faces the man who ruled his life for so long.

_I changed my mind, I want grapefruit juice, not orange juice. Where’s my suit? Be here at four tomorrow morning. Did I say four? I meant three. Oh, were you practicing, my dear? Please, put that away, you’re needed elsewhere. Don’t smile. Don’t speak. Don’t write._

_Don’t speak, my dear._

“Fenris?” Leandra’s hand hovers over his, not quite touching. “Are you all right?”

Startled out of his memories, Fenris dredges up a small smile. “My mind wandered. I apologize,” he says, and Leandra smiles back.

“Oh, no need to be so formal,” she says, and pats his hand. “I’m sorry for interrupting. You just looked…”

_Murderous_? Fenris thinks, but Leandra only shrugs and pats his hand again.

“I wanted to thank you,” she says, leaning close enough to whisper. “You’ve made her very happy, you know.”

Fenris ducks his head, not sure how to reply. “I…hope I have,” he says, finally.

Leandra gives him a sidelong look, her smile turning into a smirk, then turns back to her husband.

Danarius enters five minutes later, trailed by Hadriana. They’re both dressed in matching grey, a color that fades away completely against Tilani’s peacock blue suit. Lavellan is almost invisible, white-haired and pale as milk, and barely acknowledges the crowd as they cheer and applaud.

Fenris stares at Danarius, at the toothy smile he hated in silence for so long, and a slow swell of rage rises in his chest. It disappears an instant later, when Fenris sees the faint white powdering of dandruff on his shoulders.

_It’s good that I can still enjoy the little things_ , he thinks to himself, and joins the Hawkes in applauding.

***

The contestants are a mixed group this year: a slender elf from Kinloch Hold, a red-haired dwarf who belches halfway through his song and mutters through the rest, and a blond human who scuffs his feet and mutters something about cheese as the introduction to his song.

Hawke comes second to last.

By now, the audience has made up its mind; the winner was decided weeks ago, when the Cousland from three years ago gave his sob story about a rival firm taking over his family’s business, and how they had to rebuild from nothing — but Fenris knows the rules of the show, and whoever takes first place will find their star dimmed far too quickly.

It’s better, he reflects, his pulse hammering in his throat and wrists, to be second, and to still have somewhere to rise.

Hawke flashes a brilliant smile at the crowd, and Fenris is close enough to watch as her eyes search the crowd. Her smile falters briefly, though she nods along as the judges run through their same tired jokes — all but Lavellan, who watches impassively — then comes back full-force when she finds her family.

Fenris has time to inhale once, and Hawke’s eyes meet his.

_Showtime_ , he thinks, and clenches his fists. A few seats away, Carver whispers something, and is hushed by his twin and his father.

“So, for tonight’s original composition, you’ve brought us…?” Danarius lets the sentence trail away, a trick Fenris watched him use to his advantage over and over: leave silence, and people will rush to fill it. A petty little power play, but Danarius excels in those. Fenris reminds himself to breathe, and focuses on Hawke.

“Well.” Hawke turns her smile on Danarius, then reaches up to adjust the microphone. The audience laughs, dutifully, as it has for the past three nights, and she lets the laughter die away before she replies. “My boyfriend and I co-wrote this song, actually.”

The audience sighs as one, and Leandra nudges Fenris’ arm.

“Oh, how sweet!” says Tilani. “Is he here tonight?”

_She knows_ , Fenris thinks, wildly bewildered, and manages to get his face under control in the second before Hawke replies.

“He is, my whole family is,” says Hawke. Her smile moves from brilliant to sincere in a heartbeat, a change Fenris thinks only he might see, and she points, directly at him. “Thank you, Fenris.”

The spotlight dazzles his eyes, but he’s seen this part of the show too many times not to have his reaction ready.

_Eat shit, Danarius_ , he thinks, his heart racing, and sends a crooked smile in the direction of the cameras while he waves.

The widescreens above and on either side of the stage flash back in time to capture Danarius’ colorless, slack-jawed face, long enough for Fenris to commit the image to memory. Then it’s back to Hawke, smiling like it’s Satinalia and her birthday all at once, and all he can do is smile back.

Whatever happens next, he’s free. For good.

_***_

Like they always do at this point in the show, the cameras follow Hawke back to the greenroom once she’s been eliminated. Fenris doubts the camera crew has ever filmed someone who _laughed_ once they got off-stage.

“Oh, Mom, Bethany, stop crying!” she says, flinging herself at her family. “It’s fine! I didn’t even think I’d get this far!”

“Those assholes,” sobs Bethany. Fenris flinches — there’s no delay, the show’s live — but then he remembers that as producer, Danarius will pay the fine, and he’s tempted to add a few expletives to the conversation himself.

Instead, he hovers at the edge of the little group, letting Hawke be hugged and kissed and comforted by her family, even though they’re clearly in need of more comfort than her, and waits.

He would wait forever, just to see her smile, just to hear her sing.

“You sounded so lovely, my darling,” says Leandra. She lays a smacking kiss on Hawke’s forehead, and Fenris hears the ratings climb. “Oh, Maker, how _could_ they have voted you off? _How_?”

“Thedas wants what Thedas wants,” Hawke says blithely. Her cheeks are a hectic pink and her eyes too bright; no doubt half her attitude is thanks to adrenaline and nerves, but Fenris is perversely grateful for that. At least the drop, when it comes, won’t be broadcast for all Thedas to see. “And it wasn’t me. But! Did you hear how they freaked out for our song? Where’s Fenris? Where’s — oh, _Fenris_.”

She throws her arms around his neck, laughing in his ear and kissing him until he can’t catch his breath. A cynical part of him — the last vestige of his time with Danarius — can’t help thinking of how well _this_ will play in the ratings, the young lovers reunited, but the rest of him ignores it, and focuses on the kiss, and Hawke’s warm, soft body pressed to his.

***

Hawke is drooping in her chair by the third talking-head interview, pale and exhausted, and can barely keep her eyes open by the sixth. Between himself, Carver, and Bethany, they untangle Hawke from the rest of the press and bring her to a quiet corner, where Leandra and Malcolm are waiting with fries from the Hanged Man and enough bottled water for a small army.

Within fifteen minutes, the food is gone, and Hawke is dozing in the curve of Fenris’ arm. They can’t leave till the show’s finished broadcasting, but Fenris is plotting an early escape when the doors of the greenroom swing open, and a tall woman with close-cropped dark hair scans the room.

Instinct makes Fenris sit up straight. Hawke murmurs a sleepy protest when he moves, but she stretches and sits up, blinking drowsily up at him.

“Everything okay?” she asks.  

“I think so,” he murmurs, watching as the woman catches sight of their group, and strides toward them. When she reaches them, Malcolm stands and blocks her path.

“I’m sorry,” he says, all icy politeness. “No more interviews.”

“I am not here to interview Serah Hawke,” says the woman briskly. “I am here as a representative of the Inquisition label.”

Fenris feels Hawke wake completely. “Oh shit,” she says. Then, “Uh, sorry. Hi.”

Carver and Bethany groan in unison, but the woman hardly notices.

“You impressed tonight,” she says, to both Hawke and Fenris, “Serah Lavellan would like to meet with you both, in two weeks’ time, at Inquisition headquarters. Call it…an audition, of sorts. And tell no one of this conversation,” she adds, sternly, glaring down at them both. “It is highly irregular to make such an offer before the end of the show, but Serah Lavellan insisted.”

Hawke laughs again, quiet now, but infinitely pleased with herself — with them both, he realizes. “So, Fenris,” she says, with a smug smile curving her mouth, “is this where I say _told you so_?”

“No,” he says, and slings an arm around her shoulders, too happy for words. It’s all his, forever and ever. “It’s not, but I doubt that’ll stop you.”

_***_

_No one can argue with Champion’s critical and commercial success. However, the chamber-pop group owes much of its appeal to its songwriting — and nowhere is that stronger than in the Fenris-Hawke folk duo. Like their more bombastic pop forays, Fenris’ lyrics are allowed to shine, unadorned here by anything but guitar, mandolin, and Hawke’s voice. Forget ornamentation; forget flourishes. Stark vocals and deceptively simple arrangements frame songs of longing, determination, and devotion, and nothing more is needed._

_It’s a safe bet that any endeavor involving this partnership will be a fertile one, but the duo’s more intimate work continues to be the most satisfying and challenging in their catalogue._

_Now starting their fourth Free Marches tour, in support of their new album, “Magebane”, Fenris and Hawke continue moving from strength to strength — together, as always._

Pitchfork _, Harvestmere, 9:37 Dragon._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading, and for letting me indulge my fluffy instincts! I know nothing about American Idol, or Pitchfork, or writing album reviews, so any mistakes therein are mine. 
> 
> <3


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